


how the mighty are fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

by goblinthusiast



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: ( this was on my old ao3 - ive edited it and im reposting it bc im still V Proud of it ), Avengers vs X-men, Gen, Memories, Pre-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Retrospective, Vignette, b4 avx consequences, f the avengers, post-AvX, uhhhhh as they say in the vernacular, wrow i love scott so much??, yknow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 02:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goblinthusiast/pseuds/goblinthusiast
Summary: the battle is over. there are no winners. the perpetrators have been taken into custody, the "heroes" who came out closest to the top rejoice at their "victory" and sigh in relief. the only details that can be ascertained through the chaos are that the mutant population is restored and that the man responsible, a certain scott summers, will pay for his crimes.





	how the mighty are fallen, and the weapons of war perished!

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just get sad about scott so you end up writing a 1700 word interlude to canon with no happy ending that just makes you sadder
> 
> ( also yes this is from my old ao3, it's one of the only things i'm keeping from there because i like this one )

The prison chaplain comes by to visit most days. Scott doesn’t know how to tell him that it’s not necessary, that he’s never been a religious man. It’s ironic, he thinks, a smile toying at his lips, how he was so close to godhood and yet, there’s no deity he believes in, no miracles he subscribes to. How is he supposed to blindly adhere to a philosophy of a benevolent God when he's been hunted every moment of every day simply because of how that God made him? It's too cruel - just the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach.

 

But maybe he shouldn’t tell that to the chaplain. It’s sweet, really, this tottering, gentle old priest, collar starched like the day it was bought, pushing a leather-bound Bible across the table to him. He exhorts him to use it, and Scott tries his hardest not to laugh. After all the charity the chaplain’s shown him in the past weeks, it just wouldn’t be kind.

 

“You know, Mr. Summers, redemption - if you desire it - is within your grasp. You are not beyond hope. You simply have to work for it.”

 

Scott has to stifle a bitter smile at that. He can’t be redeemed. It doesn’t work that way.

 

It’s not that he’s afraid of the work - Scott’s never been one to shy away from hard labor of any kind. The simple fact of the matter is that he isn’t looking for guidance. There’s nowhere for him to go, no further path to take. He did what was necessary. He’s made peace with his actions, accepted his crimes, justified his sacrifices. Now, all he’s got is time. Time and guilt. There’s no deliverance in his future.

 

At night, though, he wonders. As the stars twinkle in the sky far above his basement cell, their light only a vague memory, he wonders. Wonders if martyrs before him felt the way he did; if they, too, wished that maybe they could be saved. If Joan of Arc felt the sting of betrayal and loss more than the flames licking her feet. If Socrates felt any turmoil as the poison in his wine consumed him. If maybe he was wrong, if everything he did was in vain, if he’ll even be remembered for anything but his sins. It terrifies him, the future and what it holds, sometimes more than his past.

 

Other nights, he simply remembers. Remembers the pure power, the unfettered strength, that infinite  _ puissance  _ \- how beautiful it felt to be a god among men. Maybe that’s what he should tell the chaplain, he muses. How he was an angel, a god, a cosmic avatar of destruction and rebirth; how he was fire and life incarnate, he was Phoenix!

 

And oh, oh, how hard he fell! He reached up to touch the sun and was cast out of heaven with his wings of wax melted and his wits muddied. He was a child standing on the Tower of Babel, teasing God, unaware of the sandstone crumbling beneath him until it was too late. And as he plummeted, all he could do was cry.

 

He sees the faces of his friends, his lovers, his mentor, his family flash before him as he relives each moment.

 

First it’s Emma, her golden hair glowing in the sunlight, her piercing blue eyes seeing straight through to his soul, her perfect smirk outlined in frosty rose-colored lipstick - God, how he loves her, how complete she makes him feel. She teases him, snarks at him, plays him like a Stradivarius, dominates him in every way he could ever imagine, but she loves him. She’s kind of an asshole, but that’s okay - he needs someone like that in his life, someone who’ll stop him from getting too self-righteous. They’re so happy together; she’s able to make him bold and brash in a way no one ever has. He watches her fall to the ground as he takes her portion of the Phoenix, watches her incredulity and skepticism turn to fear. What happened to them? What happened to him? 

 

Then it’s Xavier, his thin, wispy voice issuing Scott orders in the Danger Room, then on the field in his first missions. He congratulates him, every word reverberating with pride, and Scott knows he’ll never feel as fulfilled as he does now. He’s like a father to him, a comforting presence in his every waking moment. Xavier’s there at every turn, and he’s often rude and selfish, but Scott still loves him anyway; his approval and acceptance mean everything to him. He watches himself shout, angry and disillusioned, at his mentor; watches himself reduce the closest thing he had to a father to cinders with his fury; watches himself cry over Xavier’s crumbling body as it turns to dust in his hands. Scott’s screaming for help, but none can hear him over the din of the fire scorching through his already-charred mindscape. There’s nothing he can do to stop it.

 

Next it’s Jean, her red hair as fiery as her personality. She’s so inexperienced at first, they all are, only able to lift small objects with her mind. It feels strange to him - after all, they have to have some modicum of “usefulness” to be able to fight in the Professor’s war, don’t they? - but she proves her worth over and over and over, never backing down from a challenge, and he finds himself falling in love. She’s beautiful, kind, funny; he’s awkward, stiff, and afraid. Somehow, they fit right into one another. They’re a hurricane and its eye, a perfect storm of love and disaster, of beauty and tragedy. They’re cosmic - nothing in any universe can keep them apart. He watches her die in space, then commit suicide in his arms on the moon, then die once again at Xorn’s hands, the Phoenix tearing her apart with each separate possession. He listens to her voice in the White Hot Room, calling him an idiot, and he feels relieved. He doesn’t know why, but it’s gone so quickly that he can’t remember. He’s falling again, too quickly to process the loss.

 

Then he sees Hank, his intellectualism grating but endearing, his movie-star grin eliciting a wide smile from anyone who’s nearby. He’s blue, but that’s okay; Hank and Scott and Jean and Warren and Bobby and every other X-Man are fighting so that they can all live without being seen as threats, without having to play the victim in every scenario. Without having to surrender their lives every time they step outside the Institute. They’re the serious ones, but Scott’s able to joke with Hank, to develop a sense of humor around him. They can trust each other with their lives, with their dumb emotions and irritations, like teammates, like friends, like  _ brothers _ . But now they’ve grown apart, and Hank is so infuriatingly unwilling to listen to Scott; he doesn’t seem to understand the horror their kids will face. They have to train them to defend themselves, not so they can be soldiers in another war, but so that they won’t  _ die _ , goddammit! Hank’s hurting and grieving and angry and so he leaves with Logan, and Scott can’t decide whether he’s pissed or relieved. He tells himself he doesn’t need someone who won’t completely devote themselves to the cause endangering his work, their work. And after the battle is over, he sees Hank for the first time in a year, but it’s not a happy reunion - Hank’s anger, his pure, unbridled rage, is all directed at him. Scott sees his perfect “I told you so” face contorted in disgust as he shows him the horrors of his actions.

 

Others fly by, their names and faces a blur. It’s Logan, his lover, and Ororo, his friend, and Erik, his confidant, and Betsy, and Namor, and Illyana and Pete and Rachel and Bobby and Kitty and Warren and Rogers and Stark and Wanda and -

 

It always ends with Hope.

 

When he wakes up in the morning after nights like those, it’s like there’s nothing left of him. Time has driven him past the stage where he couldn’t sleep for fear of going back under, unable to control himself and forced to watch himself indiscriminately tear apart all he holds dear, but it’s still no walk in the park. He feels as though been burned up with the Phoenix, but that’s not really true - he’s burned up by his own memories. It’s as if he’s empty, a shell of his former self. Self-loathing fills the hollow space inside, but even that familiar sensation can’t fix the broken feeling that leaves him struggling to continue existing.

 

The weight of his actions threatens to crush him, and, sometimes, he wishes it would. At least in death, he wouldn’t have to feel anything anymore.

 

“I am not a good man. I gave up that title long ago. I don’t like it, but we become what we have to be. We do what we have to in order to survive,” Scott explains to the chaplain, every syllable even and measured. “I didn’t want to do what I did; I didn’t have any control. It still haunts me - as it should. Everything I’ve done, every person I hurt, every relationship I tore apart, every goddamn promise I broke. Every infernal fire I relished in creating. I hate remembering what I did under the Phoenix’s influence.”

 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes behind the visor, tears pooling behind his eyelids. That the older man can’t see his eyes provides a little comfort. “But I saved my people. They’ll survive now. They’ll be okay. And maybe they won’t have to be statistics. Maybe they won’t have to be child soldiers. Maybe they won’t end up broken. Maybe they won’t end up like  _ me _ .”

 

The chaplain raises his eyebrows and places his wizened hands gently on Scott’s shackled ones. “Son…”

 

“There’s no heaven for people like me, Father. There’s only hell, and I’ve lived it. I  _ am  _ living it. I'll live it until I die, and I know I’ll live it after death as well.

 

“I have to. And I accept that.”


End file.
